Page 207 - The Kite Runner

196 Khaled Hosseini

clogged with bicycle riders, milling pedestrians, and rickshaws
popping blue smoke, all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes
and alleys. Bearded vendors draped in thin blankets sold animal-
skin lampshades, carpets, embroidered shawls, and copper goods
from rows of small, tightly jammed stalls. The city was bursting
with sounds; the shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with
the blare of Hindi music, the sputtering of rickshaws, and the jin-
gling bells of horse-drawn carts. Rich scents, both pleasant and
not so pleasant, drifted to me through the passenger window, the
spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari Baba had loved so much
blended with the sting of diesel fumes, the stench of rot, garbage,
and feces.
A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University, we
entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as “Afghan Town.”
I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors, kabob stalls, kids with dirt-
caked hands selling cigarettes, tiny restaurants—maps of
Afghanistan painted on their windows—all interlaced with back-
street aid agencies. “Many of your brothers in this area, yar. They
are opening businesses, but most of them are very poor.” He tsk’ed
his tongue and sighed. “Anyway, we’re getting close now.”
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan, in 1981.
He had come to say good-bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul.
I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer, crying softly.
When Baba and I arrived in the U.S., he and Rahim Khan kept in
touch. They would speak four or five times a year and, sometimes,
Baba would pass me the receiver. The last time I had spoken to
Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba’s death. The news had
reached Kabul and he had called. We’d only spoken for a few
minutes and lost the connection.
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner
where two winding streets intersected. I paid the driver, took my